


and there I will be buried

by abzu, primordialgirl (abzu)



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Warnings May Change, no beta i don't care, submitting to the mortifying ordeal of being known
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:55:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23546503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abzu/pseuds/abzu, https://archiveofourown.org/users/abzu/pseuds/primordialgirl
Summary: Azriel doesn't think he is incapable of being in love, but more often than not, he feels that it just isn't for him. It isn't until he meets a healer from the Dawn Court that his mind begins to change.
Relationships: Azriel (ACoTaR)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 76





	1. nascence

**Author's Note:**

> But Ruth replied, “Don’t urge me to leave you or to turn back from you. Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people, and your God my God. Where you die I will die, and there I will be buried. May the Lord deal with me, be it ever so severely, if even death separates you and me.” Ruth 1:16 NIV
> 
> some dancing music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bvNZeh6f8vE

Azriel frowned at the crowd of people. In his pocket, the letter felt like it was burning against his skin. The Dawn Court was resplendent as always, but Azriel had to remind himself of the vipers within. Out of all the courts, the Dawn Court was almost the most inconspicuous to him. They were neutral on most matters, uninterested in the squabbles and troubles they deemed petty outside of their own court. 

But after Thesan had announced his heir to be his eldest niece – Arsinoe – Azriel felt that he had to become much more cautious. There was a sharpness to Arsinoe unlike Thesan. He recalled how easily she had shamed them during the summit with all the High Lords in regards to fighting Hybern. She had no sympathy for the suffering his High Lady and Mor had gone through. But he realized, to Arsinoe, the fate of Prythian was more important than “backwater affairs,” as she called them. 

And when she had charged into battle, mounted on a wyvern of silver, Azriel can’t quite forget a moment like that. Ferocious yet collected, shrewd yet quiet. Arsinoe was someone Azriel would need to watch out for. 

She currently sat across from him, her fiance sitting beside her. His name was Sylvain, and he was of the old yet minor noble house of Corandraphe. According to Azriel’s sources, Arsinoe’s father had been less than pleased with the match. He had wanted someone of more affluence, not a family that now only produced soldiers for the High Lord. 

Yet Arsinoe looked content sitting next to Sylvain – afterall, she did choose him – and Sylvain was the near opposite of Arsinoe. From what Azriel could tell in the conversations he’s had with him, Sylvain was extroverted, vibrant. He gestured with his hands whenever he spoke and did impersonations. He wanted to make people laugh rather than destroy their self-preservation. Where Arsinoe was a frost, Sylvain was the warm morning sunshine. 

“Excuse me,” Arsinoe said, standing. She smoothed the front of her chiffon dress before Sylvain took her hand and kissed her knuckles. She gave him a small, happy smile before she went to greet another guest attending her engagement party. 

Sylvain looked positively love-struck, watching her walk away, the goblet of wine in his hand almost tipping over. 

Next to Azriel, Cassian spoke up. “So what will you be when Arsinoe becomes High Lady?” he asked. 

Sylvain blinked in surprise. “Pardon?” he asked.Cassian repeated his question. “Oh. Hm – probably just Lord of the Dawn Court.”

“Really?” Nesta asked, her tone indicating she didn’t believe him. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see his brother reach out to touch his mate’s hand that was currently fisted in her lap. Slowly, Nesta took his hand without looking at him. 

The Dawn Court male considered the question for another moment before saying, “Really. I mean, I’m already a captain in the Dawn Court’s army. I don’t think I need any more titles. Besides, I don’t think politics is really my thing.”

“You would just rather support your wife then,” Nesta drawled. It was obvious she was trying to bait him, to make him reveal his true colors. 

But Sylvain just nodded his head. “It’s what I’ve always wanted to do.”

Azriel spoke up next. “Arsinoe is of the House of Hadriathones?” he asked, shifting in his chair. He involuntarily shivered when someone ran a nail along his wings. 

“Hey!” Sylvain snapped, narrowing his eyes. Azriel turned to see two retreating figures of giggling females. “Sorry about them. They’re always doing that to the Peregryns too. It’s like no one ever taught them how to keep their hands to themselves.”

While Azriel appreciated Sylvain’s words, he still continued to steer the conversation back to Arsinoe’s family. Once Sylvain confirmed that yes, Arsinoe is Arsinoe Hadriathones, he asked, “Does she happen to have a sister named Ersa?”

Azriel knew the answer was yes. He just needed someone to point her out to him. 

He could see Cassian grinning. Azriel wanted to kick him. He didn’t want Sylvain to get the wrong impression. He just wanted to get rid of the damn letter. 

When Rego had asked him to deliver a letter and a small gift, Azriel had not been expecting it to be addressed to a High Lord’s niece of another court. It didn’t help that Rego had somehow managed to magick the letter so Azriel couldn’t open it. It wasn’t that Azriel wanted to snoop into another Illyrian soldier’s personal business, but he had his concerns – security concerns. 

Rego was a good warrior, a good male. Azriel didn’t doubt that Rego would ever betray the Night Court, but he was young. He didn’t want his young soldier being bewitched by a potentially dangerous political enemy, such as Arsinoe and her family. 

“Uh, let’s see,” Sylvain said. He twisted his head to look at the fae dancing behind him. He made a small gesture towards a couple, a female in a silver silk dress and a taller male dressed in gold. “She’s the female who looks like she’d rather chew a candlestick than be with that asshole prick.”

Cassian stifled his laughter, and even Azriel wanted to give Sylvain credit for how apt that description was. The female truly did look miserable, scowling whenever she twirled back into the male’s arms, rolling her eyes over his shoulder when Azriel assumed he was speaking. He even saw her purposely mess up a few steps in the waltz so that she could step on his toes. 

“So who is the asshole prick?” Cassian asked, leaning forward. Nesta rolled her eyes, silently excusing herself to join her sisters that sitting with Mor and Viviane. 

Sylvain let out an exasperated sigh, now practically sprawled across the chairs in a way that was truly unbecoming of a noble High Fae. 

“Cadmus Larkossa,” he said. “Current heir to the House of Larkossa. Nothing truly remarkable about him except for how awful he is and that he’s probably going to be the one marrying Ersa if her father has anything to do with it.”

“Why is she dancing with him?”

“Oh, probably because of her father. Evander is truly a bastard, let me tell you. If it wasn’t for Turan and Thesan, all those girls would be married and mothers by now.” And Azriel was sure he could listen to Sylvain shit talk the entirety of the Dawn Court for the rest of the evening, but he wanted to be rid of this damn letter and whatever gift Rego wanted to be given to this Ersa. 

So he stood up, excusing himself to Cassian since Sylvain was too far gone down the rabbithole, and walked to the edge of the crowd. He waited until the music stopped before he approached Ersa. 

There was polite clapping for the musicians, and Ersa turned to walk away, but Cadmus’ hand shot out to grab her wrist. She glared at him, but made no move to escape his hold. 

“Would you honor me with another dance?” he asked her. 

“Forgive me, but I am tired and would like to rest,” she said. 

“I thought all your Hadriathones girls would dance until you wore your shoes out.” There was an edge to his voice. He sounded amused, but even Azriel felt like he could sense some type of threat. Even a fae standing nearby them shot them a side-eyed glance before taking a sip of his wine. 

Ersa opened her mouth to retort, but she closed it. 

“Excuse me,” Azriel said, making himself known. They both looked at him. Cadmus in annoyance, Ersa in curiosity. He looked at the latter as he said, “Your uncle wanted me to find you.”

“For what?” Cadmus asked. The music was beginning to start up again, but he made no room to move even as Ersa tried to awkwardly shuffle away from the dance circle. 

Azriel fixed him with a hard look. “It isn’t any of your business,” he said. He looked back to Ersa and offered her his arm. She took it, looking at Cadmus who still hadn’t let go of her. 

Instead, there was something fearful in his eyes. Amber orbs were fixed on the shadows coiling around Azriel. After a moment of consideration, he slowly let go of her, and instantly, Ersa pressed herself against Azriel’s side. 

“Well, we must be going,” she said, both of her arms wrapped around Azriel’s. “I’m sure there is another female without a partner who can entertain you while I’m absent.” And with that, she began to walk away, practically pulling Azriel with her. When they were clearly out of ear shot, she whispered, “My uncle doesn’t really need me, does he?”

“No, that was just a diversion tactic,” Azriel said, beginning to guide her towards one of the open balconies instead of charging through the crowds. 

Once they were outside, they parted. Azriel sighed in the new night air, happy there was a slight chill opposed to the balmy warmth that occupied him the afternoon. In the torchlight, Ersa’s dress was beginning to turn a little gold. 

“Thank you for that,” Ersa said, rubbing the wrist Cadmus had gripped her by. 

Azriel nodded his head. “I’m Azriel,” he introduced himself. 

Ersa also nodded her head. “I know,” she told him. “I remember you during the War.”

His eyebrows raised in slight surprise. “Did you fight in it?”

“No. I came as a healer. I’m sure you saw Arsinoe and a few of my other sisters while in the air. I was on the ground.”

“I did see Arsinoe.”

“Well, she’s very recognizable right now.” A pause. “My name is Ersa.” The last bit was tagged on at the end as if she wasn’t used to introducing herself.

Azriel nodded his head again. A silence spread between them before Azriel realized he still hadn’t given her the letter. 

“Oh,” he said as he pulled it out from his pocket. “This is from Rego. He asked me to give it to you. Along with this.” He pulled out a small velvet pouch, depositing both items in Ersa’s hand. 

She blinked in surprise before opening the envelope gently, using her nail to pull the wax seal off. She pulled out the letter, her head bowed so that Azriel could only see the diadem of emerald ivy nestled in her dark waves. She let out a small giggle, and when she raised her face, Azriel could see his cheeks tinted red. 

She then opened the pouch, a black bracelet dropping into her palm. Even though it was not in the form he was used to, Azriel could recognize the pitch of Illyrian steel. 

“May I ask how you know Rego?” Azriel asked, watching as she shifted on her feet so she could lean back against the balcony rail. Around her, the purple morning glories were closed into pale swirls without the morning sun to awake them. She placed the pouch on the wide rail, anchoring the letter underneath from the evening winds. 

There was a sort of fond smile on her face as she turned the bracelet around in her hands. “He was a patient of mine during the war with Hybern,” she said. “Poor scrap. But I am glad to read that he is well and stronger than when I left him.”

“You were the one who healed Rego?” Azriel asked, trying to keep the shock out of his voice. 

During the final assault, Rego’s wind had been shredded and nearly torn off his back. When Azriel had seen him, his back nothing more than ravaged flesh, he didn’t believe he would survive the night – wings or not. To die would be one terrible thing, but for an Illyrian warrior to be wingless was another. 

“My mother helped,” Ersa said. She rubbed her thumb over the surface of the bracelet. “You may have heard of her – Turan.”

The good Lady Turan was well-known not only throughout the Dawn Court, but all the courts for her healing abilities. Azriel had even heard a ballad or two about her. 

Even though Azriel had never had the chance to meet Lady Turan, given a title for her compassion and generosity, he had heard of the praises from the fae outside of the Dawn Court, those who had traveled to her seeking resolutions to their ailments. She had never turned away a patient nor did she ask for money. All that she asked for was patience and understanding. 

Realizing this, Rego’s recovery was less of a miracle to Azriel and more of a gratitude to these two females who had saved him. 

“I have,” Azriel replied. “I never got to give you two my thanks.”

“Over a year later, and you still haven’t,” Ersa said jokingly. 

“Well, I thank you and your mother for your service that day,” Azriel said, sincerity soaking his words. 

Ersa nodded her head, slipping the bracelet onto her wrist. It didn’t quite match her dress. Even though her dress of silver would allow most colors to go with it, there was a certain crudeness to the bracelet that contrasted against the delicateness of her jewelry. 

But Ersa did not seem to mind, admiring it with fond eyes in the firelight. 

“Tell me, Azriel, would you like to dance with me?” she asked, not quite meeting her gaze. 

The question threw Azriel off guard. He was not used to people asking to dance beyond Mor and Cassian during Starfall. And from what he has seen, Ersa appeared to be fond of those partner dances and circle dances. If anything, Azriel could dance freely if supplied with the more than usual alcohol intake. 

“I thought you said you were tired,” he said, cocking his head. 

Ersa’s smile widened a bit, picking up the letter and the pouch and vanishing them, probably back to her room. “Tired of dancing with Cadmus, perhaps,” she said, pushing away from the balcony. She looked up with almost mischievous eyes, the opal-green of her eyes bright and merry and twinkling. 

“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with your dances,” he said, nodding his head towards the current dance happening inside. Hands on waists and shoulders, hands clutched together, circling like swans, the coordinated steps in time with the music. All concepts foreign to an Illyrian warrior. 

He could recall a few, scant memories of his childhood, watching a group of females spinning and jumping, dancing around a fire as the males cajole them from an amicable distance. He remembered them holding hands, skipping sideways with wide smiles and laughter floating around them. 

Azriel couldn’t remember what the occasion was. Maybe a wedding. Maybe a holiday. Those moments of joy were scant and brief. 

“Oh? A warrior who doesn’t know how to dance?”

It was hard to tell if Ersa was teasing him or not. But Azriel decided to indulge her. 

“Why would a warrior need to know how to dance?” he asked. If he was being honest with himself, he was a little curious about her words, a little more interested in spending an evening talking to a pretty female.

“All warriors in the Dawn Court are taught how to dance before they even touch a sword,” she said. 

Azriel raised an eyebrow. “Court etiquette?”

“No. What do dancing and fighting have in common?”

“It takes more than one?”

Ersa considered the answer. “Sure. But –” She lifted her skirts high enough so that Azriel could see her silver matching shoes and skinny ankles. “– it’s all footwork.”

“Huh. I never would have thought.”

“I’m not the best example of this,” Ersa admitted, dropping her skirt. Her eyes flickered back towards the ballroom. “Two of my younger sisters, Dynamenes and Pherusa, are excellent at swordplay.” She grinned. “They’re also quite keen with a bow.”

“So is my High Lady.”

“Does your High Lady also go hunting for monsters in the Middle?”

No, but Azriel knew he would be damned if he let her. He was aware that Rhys made Feyre go into the Weaver’s Cottage to retrieve his mother’s ring, but he knew that his brother would be unwilling to let his mate go there again. 

Ersa spoke again before Azriel could. “Though I suppose there would be some complications given her pregnancy.” A pause. “I suppose I should get my congratulations in order.” 

“You should.”

Ersa gave a quick nod before taking Azriel’s hands in her own. During such events, he wore gloves. He wasn’t ashamed of his scars as much as he disliked people staring more, and then asking questions only for the horrifying answers. It was easier to conceal them, hide them from prying eyes. 

Azriel didn’t know if Ersa knew about his hands or not – word and gossip travel fast. But she took them, placing one one on her waist and holding the other with her own, palm to palm. She took her other hand and delicately placed it on his arm, right above the crook of his elbow. 

This type of dancing was a bit too intimate for Azriel. When he had been younger, he imagined himself like with Mor. He could still see it: her sun-spangled hair, her eyes happy, the two of them twirling together and laughing without a care. 

“Who’s leading?” Azriel asked. 

“Me, of course,” Ersa answered, flashing a smile at him. She looked down at their feet before meeting Azriel’s gaze again. “This is a pretty easy dance. Oh, I wish we had some music!”

“Another time,” Azriel said.

Another smile. “Right. So I’m going to take a step forward with my right foot, and you’re going to take a step back with your left foot.” She continued to instruct him until Azriel began to see the square pattern they were practically tracing with his feet. 

“It’s a box step,” she said, as if reading his thoughts. “See – simple. This is one of the first dances we learn as younglings.”

Azriel made a _hmph_ noise in acknowledgement. He could imagine children in the Dawn Court, staring at their feet as they practiced. He briefly thought of Ersa practicing as a child, tracing the steps by herself or with one of her many sisters. 

“And now –”

Ersa pushed herself away, still holding his hand. She swung herself outwards, skirt swirling about her legs, before she spun herself back in. Everything was a gentle motion with Ersa, even when her back was to Azriel’s front, her arms crossed over her as she took his free hand. 

She tilted her head back so that Azriel could see her face, her eyes playful and smile mischievous. She smelled like jasmine and mint. It wasn’t perfect, but Azriel couldn’t think about how easy it would be to bend his neck and kiss her–

“Not so bad, huh?” she said. Azriel almost startled, his fingers unconsciously squeezing her own was his only tell. 

“Not terrible,” he said as she moved away from her. 

She extended her hand again. “I can teach you another more advanced one.” When noticing his hesitance, she giggled. “It’s still fairly easy. It’s also a classic in the Dawn Court.”

Azriel reached out for, pausing when he noticed his shadows stretching before him. Thin tendrils circled around her fingers, drifting to her center of her palm, climbing around her wrist before disappointing into nothing. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, retracting his hand. 

“Don’t be,” Ersa said. The look on her face told him she was not scared but mystified. “They feel like… clouds.”

“Clouds?” Of all the descriptions of Azriel’s shadows, no one had once compared them to clouds before. If anything, his shadows were the opposite. 

Ersa nodded her head. The shadows were not encasing her hand, but crawled on her skin like a snake, weaving an intricate design over her like a lace glove. 

“Like when you’re flying through a cloud,” she clarified. 

Azriel shouldn’t have been shocked by her words. He knew that the High Fae of the Dawn Court often preferred wyverns or pegasi when they weren’t winnowing themselves. Still, he felt it difficult to see Ersa riding on either of those creatures. But perhaps if he saw her in something that wasn’t a gown and the jewels of a princess, he could visualize it better. 

“What mount do you have?” he ended up asking. 

“A wyvern – her name is Thethtayan.” She flashed him a grin. “Maybe I’ll introduce you to her one day.”

Before Azriel could say anything – a somewhat embarrassing _I would like that_ – a voice called out Ersa’s name. They both turned to see another High Fae female. She resembled Ersa greatly, but was prettier in an unearthly way. Her chestnut hair was so lustrous that each strand seemed to be lit from within. Her eyes flickered between Ersa and Azriel, but she paid the latter the little attention as she linked arms with the former. 

“We’ve been looking for you,” the female said, tugging her away. “You put Father in such a tizzy when you left Cadmus without a dance partner.”

“Arete,” Ersa protested, giving Azriel an apologetic look. “You shouldn’t be so–”

“What is this?” Arete demanded, holding up Ersa’s wrist to look at the Illyrian bracelet. She narrowed her eyes, not out of anger, but from studying it. “A gift?” She glanced at Azriel. “ _Him_?”

“No, from a patient I cared for during the war,” Ersa spoke slowly, pulling her arms out of Arete’s grasp. But Arete was relentless, holding her tighter and closer until they were pressed together, side by side. Her skirt contrasted against Ersa’s; wine red against silver. “You should be so rude in front of the High Lord of Night’s shadowsinger.”

Arete, either consumed with her own thoughts or perhaps simply did not care, said nothing else on the matter, and she did not look at Azriel again.

“Come now,” Arete said, pulling Ersa with her back towards the ballroom. “Macaria requested a circle dance you’ll _love_. Arsinoe will be dancing too so therefore, you must come.”

“Arete–” Ersa said, but her words were lost to Azriel the further she was away from him. 

He could feel the tug of his shadows, the intrigue to go after her, to listen to what he didn’t hear her say. But he held back. Azriel was sure he could still go after. He could spend the night in the company of a pretty female whom he would probably never cross paths with again. 

And he was contemplating this as he reentered the ballroom. True to Arete’s word, the musicians had begun to play a lively staccato. Ersa and presumably all of her other sisters and several other females were standing in a circle, hands raised and palms pressed to one another’s. Azriel could spot Arsinoe in her gown of gold among them, her face more cheery than any other time Azriel had encountered her. Sylvain was standing near the edge of his crowd, brown eyes following Arsinoe with such adoration he almost made Azriel feel envious that the High Fae male had someone to love. 

“Where have you been?” Cassian asked, appearing at Azriel’s side. There was a wolfish grin on his face, something Azriel wanted to smack away. 

Azriel shrugged his shoulders. “Delivered Rego’s letter,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. He kept his wings tucked tightly against his back. He didn’t like feeling the other fae jostle and brush up against him. 

“Just that?” When Azriel didn’t respond, Cassian let out a bark of laughter. “Az, you sly dog. Were you getting cozy with Thesan’s niece?”

“No, she was teaching me how to dance,” Azriel said before immediately regretting it. 

“She must be something if she got the Night Court’s spymaster to willingly waltz,” Cassian teased. 

Azriel wanted to make a remark about how soft Cassian had gotten after mating with Nesta. The flowers, the love letters, the books, the poems – oh gods, the _poems_. Azriel can’t quite forget how surreal it was to find Cassian scribbling poems on pieces of paper at midnight, sometimes even seeking advice from Mor. Nesta didn’t even like poetry – Cassian was just that devoted to proving his love to her. 

He decided it would be better to keep quiet. After all, how could he understand how Cassian felt? Or Rhysand? He would never understand that intense urge to please and desire and love like a mated male. As far as he knew, Sylvain and Arsinoe were not mates, but even then, they might as well be.

He thought of Ersa reaching out for him, the way she led him in their dance. He thought about her soothing scent. He thought about her eyes, that opal-green with hints of fire, and he kept thinking about how pretty they were.

Azriel could see her from where he stood with Cassian. Even though she was dancing, she was still idly chatting with another female on her right. They were laughing and small, sidestepping and jumping in time with the music. 

A few times, their eyes met. Azriel thought he saw her smile widen. There was a sinking feeling in his chest when he realized she couldn’t be happy to see him. Why would she be? So with a frown, he turned on his heel and went to find another pretty female to occupy his time.


	2. jilted?

Azriel saw Ersa the next morning, sitting in the nook of a window. She wore a dress of dark green velvet, knees pulled up to her chest, a book pressed to her thighs that she studied in earnest. Her dark waves bracketed her face, and when she pushed the locks behind her ear, Azriel could see that she was also chewing on the end of a pencil. 

Cassian nudged him as they continued to approach, following Sylvain through Thesan’s palace. His brother had noticed when Azriel returned to his rooms with a different female, giving him nothing more than a raised brow until morning came. The questions and teasing came then. 

“Hey, Ersa,” Sylvain said easily, giving her a vague wave with his hand. But his steps did not slow nor falter. 

Ersa looked up, a smile on her lips. She looked ready to say something, her mouth already forming the first letter of a word. But then her eyes drifted over to Azriel, almost as if she could sense him from outside of her peripheral vision. 

That smile instantly turned into a frown, and then a scowl. She swung her legs over to stand, book snapping shut, pencil behind her ear. She ignored him as well as Sylvain and Cassian as she walked in the direction that they came from. 

Azril didn’t want to watch Ersa go, so he refused to let his eyes follow her, keeping his head staring straight ahead. 

Sylvain, apparently startled from Ersa’s silence, paused in his movements. He only looked at her for a moment before glancing at Azriel. His mouth, once spewing random facts, though nothing Azriel did not already know about Thesan’s palace, was set in a straight line. His face was clearly asking him,  _ What did you do?  _ But Azriel could also sense a threat in there, a silent,  _ If you upset her, you answer to me _ . While Azriel was sure he would be able to handle Sylvain, he didn’t want to piss Ersa off more. And he definitely did not want to piss off Arsinoe. 

Cassian, perhaps sensing the slight tension built between Azriel and Sylvain, didn’t comment on the interaction that had just passed. Instead, he made little indication he had noticed, continuing to walk forward until he almost bumped in Sylvain. This jostled the High Fae, and he went back to chittering away at menial facts and personal anecdotes. 

The three eventually entered a circular room. All the windows were open, a gentle breeze flowing and stirring the linen curtains that were pulled aside to reveal the rolling hills and verdant countryside beneath them. In the distance, Azriel could spot the popular red-tile roofs of towns nearby. 

In the center of the room, a table had been set up with enough seats to accommodate the Inner Circle as well as Arsinoe and Sylvain. 

Arsinoe stood, speaking to Feyre and Rhys quietly. She glanced at Sylvain before returning to her conversation. At the table, Mor sat with Amen and another Dawn Court High Fae, animatedly speaking with the latter. Amren, as per usual, looked bored and almost disgruntled, her finger circling the golden rim of her empty tea cup. 

Arsinoe made a gesture with her hand, and Azriel’s High Lord and Lady followed her to the table. They each took their spots. The female, Mor, and Amren sat next to each other. Rhysand sat next to Amren after pulling a chair out for Feyre. Azriel sat next to his High Lady, then it was Cassian, Sylvain, and ARsinoe. 

Arsinoe sat next to the other female, who Azriel guessed was her sister based on appearances alone. They held enough similar features, but the unknown female was plain. She was pretty, but only merely pretty with her oval-shaped face and wide gray eyes. Her dark brown hair fell around her face like a dark curtain, but when she smiled, it almost lit up the entire room. 

“Thank you for joining me today,” Arsinoe said, watching as a servant came to pour one steaming liquid from one of the several teapots on the table. There was a basketful of sliced rosemary bread, nestled against small jars of different jellies. Small sweets such as cookies and tiny cakes also filled the center of the table. “Forgive me for the short notice, but as heir of the Dawn Court, I would like to take the time to get to know the other lords and ladies of the court.”

Rhys gave a nod of his head. It was not a nod of acceptance — almost one of understanding. Azriel knew Rhys did not completely trust Arsinoe nor Thesan. After all, the Dawn Court almost immediately gave into Amarantha’s rule. Their infamous neutrality was also something neither of them were fond of. And while he could understand there were reasons unknown to them for why they were like this, the Dawn Court never helped their causes by giving no explanation or indication. 

Beside him, Feyre tilted her head slightly, the diamonds resting along her forehead shifting against her pale skin. His High Lady wore a wonderful dress of silver satin, decorated with small tufts of golden flowers along the waist that resembled buttercups with little pearls nestled at the center of each satin petal. 

“We are delighted and honored by your hospitality,” Feyre said carefully. 

Arsinoe dipped her head in acknowledgement. She gestured to a teapot painted with tall grass sprouting from the base and dragonflies flying above. 

“My mother made this tea for you,” Arsinoe said. “She heard you were suffering from bouts of morning sickness, and she recommended this to help soothe any nausea you may have.”

“What’s in it?” Feyre asked, watching as another servant poured light brown liquid from a pot. 

From where he sat, Azriel could already detect several scents. The first and easiest to detect was rmint. But it was nearly overpowered by another sharp scent. The scent was tangy, and suddenly Azriel was just a fledgling, sitting in a warm tent with a cup of freshly brewed ginger and lemon tea, Cerea smiling down at him. 

“Mint and ginger,” Arsinoe said. “Some raspberry for sweetness and peach leaves.”

Feyre blew her breath across the steaming surface before taking a tiny sip. She looked at it in surprise before taking another sip, a bigger one. 

“Thank you,” Feyre said. “It’s delicious.”

Arsinoe went over the other teas. Simple mint tea, black tea, lavender and honey, chamomile, and white. Azriel, unused to drinking tea, selected the black tea, opting not to put any milk or sugar in it in fear of ruining it. 

Cassian followed suit, the two of them not sure what to do with all this finery. It wasn’t that they didn’t have manners – but drinking tea and eating cookies with the Dawn Court heir was not something they learned in the war-camps. The etiquette was lost on Azriel, but he watched Sylvain out of the corner of his eye. 

He tried to copy the way he held the teacup, the way he reached for food, the way he smoothed the cloth napkin over his lap. 

“Is your mate unwell?” Arsinoe asked Cassian. It was a pointed question to Nesta’s absence, and it was probably obvious. But Arsinoe seemed to have enough tact to turn it into a question than flatly ask why Nest wasn’t present. 

Cassian cleared his throat, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. If it was rude, it did not show on Arsinoe’s face that remained passive and even bored as she gazed at him. 

“She did have a headache when she woke up this morning,” Cassian admitted. “But she also assumed this would be a political matter rather than a social one.”

“I should have clarified,” Arsinoe said plainly, neither upset nor apologetic. 

“I can get her if you would like.”

Arsinoe stopped him with her hand. “As much as I would love to get to know Nesta better, I am sure I will have plenty of opportunities to meet with her. Please pass along my apologies for giving her the impression of what this was about.”

Cassian nodded his head before taking a rather loud slurp of his tea. The other High Fae female — Philomela — smiled behind her cup. 

“I’m surprised you didn’t invite all of your sisters here,” Rhys said casually, leaning back in his chair. All of the chairs present were accommodated for wings, except for Feyre’s which was cushioned. 

Arsinoe’s dark eyes narrowed a little. Sylvain glanced at her before reaching for another small cake topped with pink frosting. 

“I have a lot of sisters,” Arsinoe responded. “If I had all of them here, this would not be quite as intimate of a gathering.” Amren looked about ready to roll her eyes, but she still stuffed her mouth full of the food presented to her. “Besides, many of them have lives of their own that do not revolve around me.”

“Several of them have already left today,” Philomela pitched in. Azriel had heard that one of the sisters was a brilliant singer. Even though Philomela’s voice had a pleasant lilt to it, there was chirp in it that made Azriel think it had to be someone else. 

Rhys’ eyes crinkled in amusement. “So soon?” he practically crooned. 

“Well, Erytheia left with Aethra to go back to her estate,” Philomela said, eyes drifting upwards. Azriel could see she was counting with her fingers over the edge of the table. “Crisitha went back to Tyrrene. Dynamene and Pherusa left to go hunting.”

“No, the twins are leaving tomorrow,” Sylvain said. 

“Oh?” Philomela sounded surprised. “I didn’t see them at breakfast.”

Sylvain snorted. “That’s because they decided to go hunt deer instead.”

“Is that not hunting?” Feyre asked. 

“For food, yes,” Arsinoe said. There was a small scowl on her face, and she refused to look at anyone, preferring the empty plate and barely-sipped tea. “Those two have developed a dangerous pastime of going to the Middle and killing whatever seems threatening enough.”

“ _ That’s _ hunting?” Mor asked, aghast. Her red lips were curled in slight disgust, but there was something akin to amazement in her eyes. There was something else, a glint of something, that Azriel interpreted as her about to ask if she could join. 

Sylvain smiled, his right hand no doubt reaching for Arsinoe’s hands folded in her lap. “Arsinoe is a very worried older sister,” he announced while only looking at her. He turned his head back to them. “I can’t imagine what it must be like to grow up with all eleven younger ones — especially the twins.”

Something twisted in Azriel’s gut. Azriel sometimes even forgot he had brothers. After all, he now had Rhys and Cassian and the rest of the Inner Circle as his family. So much time has passed, so much has changed. But Azriel could never quite get rid of the sour feeling building up inside of him at the thought of Erynis and Anteros. The former had died several years ago during a skirmish between war-bands. Azriel had run into Anteros during the war with Hybern, but they exchanged no words and barely a glance. 

With Rhys and Cassian, he could so easily imagine that light-hearted childhood Sylvain implied. But then with Erynis and Anteros… he felt nothing but anger. Anger at them for all the hurt they caused. Anger at Arsinoe and her sister who no doubt grew up pampered and spoiled and would never know what it meant to be hunger, truly hungry, or to weather the elements without shelter. 

Today, Azriel wasn’t wearing his gloves. The molted skin of his hands was bare to the world. The injuries had happened over five hundred years ago, but remembering the pain was too easy, as if it was always fresh on his mind. 

His hands curled into fists, and when he raised his eyes, he met Arsinoe’s. There was something on her face, some emotion he could not name. Like him, she was always near unreadable. She only ever appeared soft and loving around Sylvain, but even then she always put distance between them. But their eyes only briefly met before she looked away, chewing on her bottom lip. It was almost as if she knew what had happened to him.

“They were always a handful,” Arsinoe said, voice taking a lower, softer pitch. Perhaps there was even fondness in her voice, masked with indifference. 

Philomela let out a giggle. “I remember Arsinoe had to wrangle all of us together for every single event,” she told them. Her green eyes, the color of fresh spring grass unlike Ersa’s, glittered with happy memories. “I feel so bad for how much of a hard time we gave her.”

Arsinoe let out a small sigh, taking another sip of her tea. “The worst part was trying to get Pherusa into a dress,” she said. “I know she hated them — she still does — but Father always insisted.”

Azriel knew what sister she was referring to. The twins Dynamene and Pherusa were virtually the same with wavy black hair and the same gray eyes that some of the other sisters shared. The only true difference was that Pherusa’s hair was cut to her shoulders, and she had worn a golden tunic and trousers last night during the party. Azriel had also noticed that she only danced with other females. Dynamene had worn a matching dress, as they were often a matched set, according to Sylvain, but she was often chatting with other fae from the Dawn Court than dancing unless it was with her sisters. 

Sylvain chuckled. He now sipped his tea with his left hand, his right still holding Arsinoe’s left in her lap. 

Philomela returned to her conversation with Mor that they were having before everyone was seated. It was about the wyverns used in the Dawn Court. 

The Dawn Court was unique in regard to its use of winged creatures. Even if you could winnow, the High Fae still liked using wyvern and pegasi to travel across their own courts and others. It might have been some type of display of power, but Azriel found it more gaudy than anything. 

“I would love to be able to ride one,” Mor said. Azriel wanted to object. He hasn’t trusted a wyvern since one tried to take a bite out of him almost three hundred years ago. “Would it be possible?”

Arsinoe and Philomela shared a look with the former just giving a small shrug of her shoulders. 

“Sure,” Philomela said, even though she didn’t sound completely sure herself. “Most wyverns are bonded to their rider, and don’t let other people, or at least strangers, ride them.”

“Really?” Mor asked, sounding fascinated as she leaned forward across the table. “Even if I can’t ride one, I would love to meet one.”

“One day,” Arsinoe said. She was looking at Feyre as she said, “I don’t think the High Lord would appreciate his High Lady being put in any type of danger in this state.”

Rhys nodded his head while Feyre let out an exasperated sigh. Ever since they found out she was expecting, Feyre had complained that Rhys was treating her like an invalid. Azriel could understand why she would be upset. He had known Rhys since they were both fledglings. If anything, Rhys always had a mothering instinct — something he probably inherited from Cerea. It was now just amplified with his mate expecting. 

“Hey, Arsinoe, do you know why Ersa was so upset last night?” Philomela asked suddenly. 

Sylvain nearly choked on his tea, Arsinoe giving him a hard look before answering her sister. “She wasn’t upset,” Arsinoe said, voice firm, if not a little vexed to broach the topic. 

“Yes, she was!” Philomela said. “She was in a worse mood than Pherusa, and Pherusa was drunk  _ and _ hungover.”

Sylvain snorted at the last sentence, wrinkling his nose. He met Azriel’s eyes, and he gave a vague, shallow gesture with his teacup before taking a sip — as if he was raising a glass to him. 

The back of Azriel’s neck felt hot. Because of Cassian, everyone in the Inner Circle knew about what had happened last night. He didn’t think it was going to be that big of a deal. After all, it was Ersa who left him first, whether she wanted to or not. But this morning, Feyre had given him some lecture on a female’s feelings and common courtesy. And if Sylvain knew, then Arsinoe must know too. 

_ Fuck,  _ Azriel thought, just wanting to slink back in the shadows. He wasn’t really upset about Ersa necessarily — he just didn’t want everyone knowing his business. He also didn’t want to have a future High Lady holding a petty grudge against him for upsetting her sister. 

“Philomela, if you haven’t noticed — which I assume is the case — your sister has been under a lot of stress as of recent,” Sylvain said, turning in his chair to peer at her across from Arsinoe. 

Azriel didn’t know if he should feel gratitude towards Sylvain or not. He didn’t want to feel somehow indebted, no matter how minute, to him. It wasn't that Azriel felt that Sylvain had any malicious intent, but he didn’t want to be friendly with him. All relationships outside of one’s court are difficult to navigate, and Azriel refused to have anything deeper than skin.

Philomela, for all her flowery charm and smiles, blinked, a sort of blank look taking over her face. 

“Which sister?” she asked. It felt like everyone was waiting for her to either crack at her own joke, but the utter sincerity in her voice, that undertone of confusion that had Sylvain lunging around Arisnoe to smack the back of Philomela’s head. 

Philomela let out a squeal as her head fell forward. Sylvain was back in his seat, pushing back his crimson hair off of his forehead with ease, as if he just hadn’t hit his fiance’s younger sister. 

“The one your father forced to dance with Cadmus Larkossa,” Sylvain said calmly. Philomela was looking at him with wide eyes, her mouth opening and closing like a fish pulled out from the sea. She then glared at Arsinoe, pointing her finger at Sylvain. 

“He hit me!” she nearly yelled. 

Arsinoe blinked slowly, breathing in deeply. “Maybe he wouldn’t have if you weren’t such a dolt,” she said. 

Philomela looked downright scandalized. An argument formed between Philomela and Sylvain, the former letting loose a furious tirade against the injustice done to her while the latter disregarded everything. 

“Feyre,” Arsinoe said, ignoring the ruckus around her. “I recall you telling me last night you are fond of painting. If you would like, I would be more than happy to show you Cyrene.”

“Cyrene?” Feyre echoed, brows arching upwards in both confusion and interest. Beside Rhys gave a nod of approval. Azriel couldn’t tell if it was in approval of their travelling there or approval of Cyrene itself. 

“It’s a small city,” Arsinoe explained, raising her voice over her sister’s and fiancee’s. Despite the argument happening, there was something oddly compelling about Arsinoe’s voice. It was as if her presence demanded respect and attention. “After the First Songs, the first of the Dawn Court established it to be a central hub of creativity, culture, and learning. They believe that knowledge would protect them which is why they built the walls to be a library that wraps around the city. However, it also houses some of the most exquisite the Dawn Court has to offer in a public collection.”

“It sounds remarkable,” Feyre said. She looked to her mate. “I’m sure we should be able to spare some time today to go.” 

“We are meeting with Tarquin later,” Rhys elaborated before kissing the back of Feyre’s hand. 

Arsinoe nodded her head in understanding. “Well, then why don’t we finish up so we can leave as soon as possible.”

Rhys and Feyre nodded. Azriel knew there was no way he or Cassian would be able to get out of it since they had promised to safeguard Feyre. He didn’t believe Arsinoe would try to do anything to put Feyre in harm’s way. From what Azriel’s spies had gathered, she had an interest in building relationships with the courts after the second war with Hybern. 

“Can Nesta come?” Cassian asked. Sitting next to him, Azriel had practically felt every shift and fidget he made. He was antsy to get back to his mate. 

“Of course,” Arsinoe answered. “What kind of books does she like?”

Cassian delved in the hoards of books Nesta preferred to read — mainly of the romance genre. Azriel knew that Cassian knew almost every title, but he decided not to comment on it like most things. 

And as his brother spoke about his mate and her favorite books, Azriel couldn’t help but wonder about what Ersa liked to read. 

  
  


“This is a terrible idea,” Perseis said from the ground. 

Ersa huffed in response, shuffling to the right. Her fingers were beginning to ache from clinging onto the shelves, and Ersa was sure she had bruised her shins and knees against the edges of the shelves and the spines of books. Even her slipper clad toes were beginning to ache, her heels hanging over the edge. 

She had done this since she was a child, climbing the shelves of Cyrene when ladders were unavailable. However, in the nearly three hundred years Ersa has been alive, she can’t recall ever climbing this high. 

There was never a need to. Normally, Ersa would request books from Cyrene, and she would read them from her family estate or wherever she was staying. Or she would request them ahead of time so she could read them upon arriving. 

Her fingers skimmed one of the books she was looking for, nearly twenty feet up from the floor. She double-read the title printed on the spine to make sure that this was indeed the book she was looking for.  _ Diseases and Plagues of Prythian: Volume III _ . With a grunt, she took one of her hands to grab the book, wincing at how snugly it was crammed in with the other books. When it was freed, her right arm drooped from the weight of holding it. The books to the left of it collapsed, creating a scar in the otherwise meticulous organization. 

“Here,” Ersa called to Perseis. 

Her sister approached, setting the five books she was already holding next to her. When Ersa saw that her hands were held in front of her, ready to catch the text, Ersa let it slide from her fingers. 

She saw the yellowed pages flash as the book flipped in its descent, the pages fanning outwards like wings. Perseis caught it with a yelp, the book open in her hands. 

“Is it okay?” Ersa asked.

After a few seconds, Perseis said, “It’s as intact as it can be. How  _ old _ is this?” 

Ersa didn’t respond. Instead, she climbed higher, still shuffling to the right when she could. She only needed one more book for her research. It was older than the one she just tossed to Perseis, and according to Alima, even more obscure. 

She could see it above her. Its white spine practically gleamed against the dark colors around it. Ersa winced when she saw that the only way for her to reach it was by standing on a shelf where the books practically came to the edge, leaving little wood for her to put her toes. 

Fingers aching, shoulders straining, Ersa carefully raised her leg, putting her foot on the aforementioned shelf. She raised herself up, putting her left foot next to her right. She cursed her dress and her thin, palatial shoes. It was only that idea of being able to stand on flat ground that spurred Ersa to move faster. 

Reaching upwards, she tugged at the top of the book’s spine. Like the last book, it was tightly packed onto the shelf, but even more since it barely budged. 

Below her, Perseis called up, “Is it stuck?”

Ersa knew she was referring to how some of the books in Cyrene were charmed for protection. While no one had ever planned a heist on the library-city nor has any valuable tome vanished from their collection, the priestess of Cyrene still took precautions. Ersa remembered when she wanted to read the Book of the First Songs. Not only did she have to spend nearly a year waiting approval, but she had to read it in a dimly lit room where the book had been magically transfixed onto a table. There had also been several priestesses in the room with her, all pretending to be reading when they were all making sure she didn’t do anything untoward. 

Ersa chose not to reply. Instead, she readjusted her grip on the shelf before pulling again. It moved out a bit, the top tipping towards her. The dust coating the books and shelf made her wrinkle her nose. She could feel a sneeze building up inside her. 

She decided to give it one final go, one final try before descending. Ersa’s right hand gripped, even though it was more like pinched, the top of the spine. 

_ I can do this, _ Ersa thought.  _ I am Ersa Hadriathones, Dawn-blessed and Golden-born. _

Just as she began to jerk the book out its place, someone behind her screeched her name. 

Startled, Ersa’s footing collapsed beneath her. With a yelp, she accidentally flung herself backwards trying to grip onto the shelf with her hands. There was nothing but air and a changing perspective. The ceiling opened up before her eyes, a breeze at her neck. 

Ersa had fallen from heights similar to this. From climbing trees and garden walls, from tumbling off Thehtayan’s back. Even though she knew she could heal herself, she wasn’t looking forward to the pain she would no doubt feel in her head and spine. 

She was surprised when she didn’t crack her head on the ground. Instead, someone had caught her. 

Her body still stung smacking into the other person, but it was incomparable to the pain that would have come. Her cheek scraped against leather. It wasn’t until her feet were on the ground did she fully realize who it was. 

_ I would rather have fallen, _ Ersa thought miserably, her cheeks no doubt turning red as she looked up to see Azriel, her savior. 

She hates his handsome face, his beautiful eyes, his lovely wings. She hated the way he was so careful with her when he set her down. She especially hated the way his hands lingered around her waist before he stepped back from her. 

It could have been so easy to hate him more. After all, it was a silly little infatuation that left her feeling a little heartbroken and sad by the end of the night. It probably didn’t help that her sisters teased her relentlessly for how lovestruck she looked trying to catch glimpses of him during their circle dance, and then weaving through the crowd trying to find him again. 

He had been with Eirene Naxos, a pretty, long-legged female. It had stung, of course. Ersa thought they were getting along so well. Maybe it was just in comparison to Cadmus. Ersa loathed to be with Cadmus, especially after he had spent nearly a decade drooling after Arete before deciding Ersa was more agreeable to him. 

“Thank the Mother,” Alima said, fanning herself with her hand. Her blue hood was so big, it kept slipping over her eyes. It was no doubt she was the one who had screamed and startled Ersa. She could recognize that owl-like screech from a mile away.

“What the hell were you doing?” Sylvain asked, sounding miffed. His hands were on his hips. He looked like a disappointed mother, a sight Ersa was familiar with since she had disappointed her mother a lot. 

“I was just,” she faltered. She gestured the stack of books Perseis was holding. “Just trying to find adequate reading material for my research.”

Sylvain went over to inspect the books in Perseis’ hands, a grimace on his face as he took in the titles. 

“Why are you here?” Ersa asked Arsinoe. Her eldest sister had a look of bemusement on her face. Their guests probably hadn’t detected it since Arsinoe was so reserved, even within her family. But she could detect the dull twinkle, the way one lip corner kept curling upwards until Arsinoe willed it down. 

Arsinoe gestured to the Night Court members. Ersa gave a tiny curtsey, feeling even more embarrassed for not having greeted the High Lord and Highy Lady of Night yet. 

“Since they couldn’t see wyverns today, I thought Cyrene would be an acceptable substitute,” Arsinoe said. “We had already visited the art galleries. Alima is giving us a tour of the library since Amren was interested in the older texts.”

The short female who always looked like she was either bored or glowering was currently doing the later. Her flinty eyes felt like they were digging needles into Ersa’s skin. She wondered if she had done something to cross Amren to deserve such a glare. 

“Well, everything here is old,” Perseis said, readjusting her grips on the books. Sylvain kept mouthing the words of the titles. Ersa was sometimes surprised he could even read. 

“Here,” Azriel said, making Ersa visibly jump. In his hands was the book that she had nearly split her head open for. 

“Thank you,” she murmured, hating him for letting their fingers brush against each other’s in the exchange. Ersa had never seen this book before, so she couldn’t figure if it was already damaged due to its age or it was from the fall. The cover of the book was made of a white leather that was frayed and cracked. The title, simply  _ Herbs and Their Uses _ , was written in the Water Script across the front in black. 

“What language is it written in?” Azriel asked. “I’ve never seen it before.”

“It’s Loxian,” Alima explained. “One of our oldest written languages. It has many scripts, and this one is the Water Script — our most common one.”

“Is it similar to the Holy Tongue?” Amren asked, stepping forward. Her eyes were glittering like the edge of a knife. 

“Not quite,” said Alima. “Loxian was created by a High Fae: Loxias. Each script was inspired by dreams and visions he received from the Mother. It isn’t meant to contain power like the Holy Tongue. The Loxian Scripts are just another way for us to write and express ourselves when the common writing fails.”

Ersa was sure Alima could spend an entire day discussing the Water Script alone. She admired the priestess for her fierce interest in the Loxian Scripts and her eruditeness. But right now, Ersa just wanted to be out of arm’s length from Azriel. 

She took a small side step, clutching the book to her chest. “Well, I really must be going,” she said, looking pointedly at Perseis who was holding the rest of her books. Her younger sister’s lips looked like they were trying to say  _ oh _ , readjusting her grip for the speedy getaway she knew Ersa was about to attempt. 

Arsinoe tilted her head as she looked at her, her black pearl eyes unreadable with the way they analyzed her. “Shame,” she said, her voice rolling like the waves. “I’m sure our guests would have appreciated your knowledgeable input on Cyrene—” her eyes flashed over the title once more “—and herbology.”

Ersa let out a small chuckle, taking another step backwards. Perseis scurried to her side, jostling the books in her arms as if to emphasize all the reading they — meaning Ersa — would need to do. 

“I hope you will forgive me,” Ersa said, giving a tiny curtsey. She hated how the other Illyrian and the High Lord looked so amused. She hated the way the Illyrian’s mate’s eyes were daggers of ice shooting into her. She hated how she noticed the slightest droop in Azriel’s shoulders at the news of her imminent departure. 

She hated all of it. All of them. Him. 

When Arsinoe gave a nod of her head, a dismissal Ersa knew well, she spun on her heel and practically marched away with Perseis gaggling behind her. She didn’t have a destination in mind. Ersa couldn’t leave the library with these books. While considered useless and arcane, they were just old and rare enough to warrant their housebound spells, preventing any visitor from winnowing them away. 

Normally, Ersa would try to read in the courtyard, next to a fountain where the running water could drown out any distracting noises. She figured Arsinoe and Alima would know all her spots, and she didn’t want anyone intruding on her there. 

But where else would she go? She sighed loudly, pinching the bridge of her nose. Yet she did not slow her speeds. Behind her, she could tell Perseis was tripping based on the curses she kept throwing at inanimate objects around them. 

“I don’t understand why you’re acting so weird,” Perseis complained once they were far enough away. “You’re not some jilted lover, you know, even if you think you are.”

Ersa bristled at her words. While she knew that she was by no means a “jilted lover” or even a “lover,” she couldn’t help but feel embarrassed. She didn’t know how to explain it to Perseis, that feeling of total want and fascination, only to be reminded that things would never work out between them. 

Arete’s words rang through her ears:  _ He’s probably just trying to sleep with you thinking you’re going to reveal some Dawn Court secrets _ . 

They had been said to her off-handedly, almost carelessly, but they had stung. It didn’t help to see Azriel leave with Alcantha 

It was childish and immature, but Ersa had been completely disgruntled over the idea of being used. She refused to be. Not by her father, not by Arsinoe, and certainly not by any male believing she would so easily blather political gossip to him as pillow talk. 

Ersa was not a pawn in anyone’s game. She wouldn’t allow herself to be so naive into thinking a handsome male from the Night Court was actually interested in her for her, and not for her family or wealth. 

Yet Azriel had been kind. And gentle. And — no. 

She pushed those thoughts away, steeling herself. Even if Azriel wasn’t who Arete implied he was, and even if Azriel wasn’t who Ersa thought he was, she had no time for males in her life. 

There was work to be done. Books to read. Papers that needed to be written. Material needed to be studied. So Ersa, for what she hoped was the last time, shoved thoughts of Azriel and his eyes to the back of her mind, and reminded herself of the countless historical diseases she needed to research. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is this a slow burn? no.
> 
> am i trying to build something up to an ultimately unsatisfying conclusion? possibly!!!
> 
> listen,,,,just trying to develop characters before their relationships


	3. the first threshold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> music box music: https://youtu.be/VpGDGDv4s7U

_ Stupid, stupid, stupid,  _ Ersa thought, unable to focus on the text in front of her. There were herbs to sort, books to go through, research that must be done. Yet Ersa was still caught in the tailwinds of her daydreams of a  _ male _ **_._ ** She felt stupid and childish for being so infatuated with Azriel. Her sisters had teased her relentlessly for her crush, only intensifying whatever shame and embarrassment she felt. It didn’t help that several of them had voiced her concerns for even interacting with a known spy for the Night Court. 

She slapped her cheeks, her hands pushing together so that she could scream into her palms. 

Not only had her sisters teased her, but she had also received a stern talking-to from her father who was angry that she had left Cadmus to dance with a lesser fae. And then that lesser fae picked another female over her. Ersa’s father was sure to remind her of that too. 

It didn’t also help that her Uncle Thesan and Uncle Aphe no so subtly inquired if she had any relation with the Illyrian. That interaction had only further increased her embarrassment as she knew they would probably also ask the High Lord and High Lady of Night, who would then probably ask Azriel. 

Ersa hated how small these circles were, how they overlapped. 

She knew her Uncle Thesan had spent most of her young life protecting her and her sisters from the gossip and intrigue of the courts. And Ersa counted her lucky stars for being born in the second half of her sisters. Unlike the elder three, Ersa had grown up in relative obscurity, mostly playing the countryside, dancing with the common fae, avoiding the stuffy clothing of court functions. 

Of course, the twins practically flourished without having any court manners reinforced on them at a young age. They grew up wild and happy and free, and even after they were finally presented at court, they barely changed. Instead, like most of them, they grew a mask for such events. They were unafraid to truly show themselves, of course. Pherusa could care less that their father was not shy about throwing her nasty glares every time she asked a female to dance with her, nor did Dynamene practically give a damn about outright yelling at too touchy males with lingering hands and eyes. In fact, one of Ersa’s favorite court memories was when Dynamene smashed a plate on a male’s head after he pinched Arete’s bottom. He had been instantly knocked out and fell into the desert table. 

Dynamene had gotten into trouble, mostly with their father. Thesan and Aphe could barely control their giggles when they tried to reprimand her. They had disliked the male as much as Dynamene did. 

In their father’s eyes, Dynamene and Pherusa were of little worth given Dynamene’s temperament and Pherusa’s “inherited sickness.” But his opinions of all his daughters were similar. 

Arsinoe was cold and independent. Erytheia was too shy to interact with males and much too fond of reading. Phaethousa was much too plain faced despite her beautiful voice. Aethra was too tall. Crisitha was too devoted to her duties as a priestess. Ersa was too similar to her mother. Perseis’ skin was too dark to be attractive. Macaria laughed too much. Philomela, in general, was his biggest disappointment. He had twelve children, and no son to speak of. 

Out of all of his children, Arete was his pearl, the only daughter he took no issue with. Ersa could understand to an extent — Arete was much too beautiful to be upset with. He would only ever mention Arete to his friends, unaware of the fact Arete used to dream of gutting him like a fish. 

_ He wasn’t always like this _ . 

Her mother’s words would occasionally rattle through Ersa’s mind. She found it difficult to picture her father being the loving, kind-hearted man her mother claimed he once was. The one who wooed her with his smile and laughter and cheer. The one who used to bring her flowers and seashells. The one who only ever wanted her to be happy. 

For Ersa’s entire life, her parents had separate rooms, they didn’t eat dinner together. In fact, Ersa had been the last child her mother had raised. She had left when Ersa was five, only returning to give birth to Perseis, then the twins, then Macaria, and finally, Philomela. She left after each birth, sending letters of affection and gifts. There were times she came back to visit, mostly for birthdays and rarely festivals. Most of the time, she would winnow them away to her cottage that was deep in the country of the Dawn Court. 

Despite all this, Ersa’s parents were still “husband and wife.” She didn’t understand why. Not when they were rarely together, let alone when they didn’t even like each other. 

But it was because of this Ersa’s life had been mostly dominated by her father trying to arrange her into a profitable marriage, much to the chagrin of her uncles and mother who adamantly fought against this. It was a series of engagements only to be broken off a day later. 

“You keep sighing,” Perseis complained, making Ersa jolt at the sudden noise in the relative quiet of the library. Her knee bumped into the table leg, causing her to wince. “Mother’s wounds — don’t tell me you’re in love!”

“Shut it,” Ersa snapped, face hot and ears burning. “I am  _ not _ .” She tried to recompose herself, glancing at her opened book and her notes scribbled on a piece of paper next to it. “I’m just frustrated with how my research is going.”

Perseis raised an eyebrow like she didn’t believe her. In her hands, she held a small, bronze contraption that easily could fit in her palm. She slid into the seat across the table from Ersa, still fiddling with whatever she was holding. 

“So, how  _ is  _ your research going?” Perseis asked while placing the object on the table. 

On the flat surface, Ersa could see that it was box-shaped and had a tiny crank coming out from one of the sides. There was no design decorating it, no etchings or embellishments. 

“It’s… going,” Ersa said. She gestured to Perseis’ instrument, wordlessly asking what it was for. 

Her sister pinched the crank, holding the contraption as well as she began to turn it. A lovely melody filled the air, one that Ersa knew instantly. 

Memories of rolling hills, the scent of salt on the wind. The high cliffs, the white sand of the beach before jumping into turquoise water. She could practically feel the warm sun on her face, then the balmy nights curled up with her sisters like puppies as they listened to their mother tell stories and sing them to sleep under golden candlelight. 

Ersa closed her eyes. She tried to conjure the words to the song but failed. It was like that memory of the beach — she could no longer remember the coast. Where were they? So much time had passed since then. 

She opened them again when the song had ended. Perseis still had a faraway look in her eyes, but she returned after another several moments of thought. The two sisters looked at each other, not quite sure what to say. Ersa was sure that Perseis had a similar experience, those memories of innocent childhood drifting back to the forefront of their minds before the sudden realization that they could barely recall the exact details of those days. 

“Do you remember the words to the song?” Ersa asked quietly. 

Perseis shook her head. “No,” she said. “I could barely recall the song. I had to ask Phaethousa to transcribe it for me so I could make the music box.” A pause. “Phaethousa couldn’t remember the words either.”

“Has it really been that long?” 

“Maybe. I just think that too much has happened.”

Ersa nodded her head in agreement. Not including family drama, there had been internal strife in the Dawn Court, skirmishes with the other courts, trade disagreements with Montesere and Vallhan. There was also the fifty-year reign of Amarantha that still haunted Ersa, only to immediately lead to the war with Hybern. 

She could recall the first night of the war. Her mother had returned from Cauldron knows where to help treat the wounded. She had ushered Ersa into seeking a few minutes for herself. 

Outside of the tents, where the whimpering and cries had just become muffled sounds, Ersa became suddenly aware of all the blood on her. Her hands were practically shadows, her blue tunic brown and rust. The metallic tang she had ignored entered the nose, becoming overwhelming until she keeled over and vomited in the mud. It hadn’t been embarrassing as much as it was shameful to be comforted by a wounded and limping Peregryn as she sobbed on the ground. Who was she to be upset when she was healthy and safe?

Ersa sighed again, pushing those memories away. They mostly crept up on her at night, when she had nothing else to do but think. Her new bracelet clinked against the table when she moved her hands, catching her attention and her sister’s. 

Perseis frowned. 

“You should be careful with him,” she said as Ersa moved her hands into her lap. 

“With who?” Ersa asked, even though she knew. 

Perseis rolled her eyes before running a hand through her black hair. “ _ Azriel _ ,” she said, exasperated. “Look, I don’t think what Arete said was accurate, but she has a point. He’s a  _ spy _ .” Perseis stopped and blinked. A sort of cheeky smile came over her face. “Well, if he’s so well-known, I suppose he can’t be a very good one.” She let out a bark of laughter at her own joke as Ersa rolled her eyes. 

Once Perseis contained her giggle, she continued. “But, seriously. I just want you to be careful. He’s an Illyrian.”

Ersa scowled at what she was implying. “What do you mean by that?” Ersa asked, closing the book in front of her and leaning back in her chair. By the panicked look that came over Perseis’ face, she knew she had said something inflammatory. 

“I didn’t mean it like  _ that _ ,” Perseis said. 

“Mean it like what?” Ersa couldn’t help but feel a little amused. Perseis was younger than her, but not by much. She should know better by now to not be prejudiced. 

This time, Perseis sighed. Loudly. “I didn’t mean to say that just because he’s an Illyrian, he’s dangerous,” she said. “But he is a shadowsinger and a part of the Night Court’s Inner Circle. So, just be careful of the fact that he’s a potential political enemy who could slit your throat like a hot knife going through butter.” 

Ersa grimaced at the imagery, her fingers drumming against her lap. She stood up, grabbing her book, notes, and pencil. 

“I’m going to work somewhere else,” she said. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

Perseis made a  _ tsk  _ sound before standing up as well, pocketing the small music box. “I hope you don’t run into your  _ love _ again.”

Before Ersa could make a retort, her younger sister winnowed away. Ersa cursed under the breath, tucking her pencil behind her ear. 

Cyrene had many places she could go too. She could stay in the library, preferably moving somewhere with windows. Or she could go to one of the many gardens. Or perhaps Ersa could venture to one of those quaint eating spots, but she doubted the priestesses would let her leave with such an old tome. 

After some contemplation, Ersa decided to go to one of the small gardens that were a part of the library. It was an old one, with ivy climbing up the walls and the cobblestone smoothed over from centuries of divine feet. In one of the corners, a mysterious trickle of water that seemed to spawn from an endless source ran down the wall and created a shallow pool of water that was mostly green with moss. 

She sat on the stone bench next to the statues of Pyrrha and Hesione. Their bronze bodies were cast in shadow from the walls, but Ersa was glad for the cool comfort as well as the soft breeze that ruffled her hair. 

She opened the book on her lap, resting her hands on the edges of the paper to keep them from fluttering in the wind. There in the small garden, Ersa was content. 

It wasn’t until she heard someone cough did her attention shift from blue-cough in the Winter Court to the male standing before her. Similarly to the last time she saw him, he was wearing dark leathers, his black wings neatly folded against his back and the tips peaking above his head. She narrowed her eyes, slowly closing the book with her finger still between the pages as if to mark her spot. 

It had been nearly two days since she had last seen him here at Cyrene. Ersa hadn’t been invited to any more social court functions, which didn’t hurt her in the slightest. She was aware that Arsinoe and Sylvain have been hosting the leaders of all the courts according to the latter. While Sylvain had proven himself many times over to be a worthy spouse for her sister, Ersa could still tell that he wasn’t made for such a bureaucratic role, often bad-mouthing when he shouldn’t be and bypassing authority when he saw it to be more efficient. However, Ersa was not inclined to ask about the Night Court, and quickly changed the subject whenever Sylvain dared to bring it up.

“Can I help you?” she asked stiffly. 

Azriel opened his mouth, and then closed it. He made a vague gesture to their surroundings. Around him, his shadows flickered. 

“Nesta wanted to have another look at Cyrene,” he said, also sounding a little disjointed. “Cassian and I accompanied her.”

“Okay, but why are you  _ here _ ?”

“Alima told me you would probably be here.”

Ersa cursed the priestess in her head. She felt oddly light yet also alarmed at Azriel’s statement. He had actively sought her out, which no doubt made Ersa’s heart skip a beat at his admittance. But what did he want with her? Her sisters’ words of cautions ran through her mind, and she steeled herself for whatever he might try to pry out of her.

Azriel looked prepared to ask her another question, but then his gaze drifted to the statues next to her. He looked confused, even startled as he stared at them for a few moments in silence. 

“Alima showed us this garden the first time I came,” he said. “The statues weren’t positioned like that.”

Ersa glanced at them again. He was right — even in the time since she had sat down to read, their poses have changed just a little. To the newcomer’s eye, the change would be so miniscule that it was probably unnoticeable. But Ersa had spent her entire life with these statues as her only constant companions. She knew their movements, their routines. 

“It’s because they’re mechanical.” Ersa said, standing up. Perhaps against her better judgement, she moved to stand next to Azriel for a better view. “They move ever so slowly into different poses over time. By nightfall, they should be —” she stepped her left foot back and posed her arms just so — “like this.”

“Really?” He sounded fascinated, if not impressed. His hazel eyes were shining with a sort of warmth Ersa had caught a glimpse of the night of her sister’s engagement party. “I shouldn’t be surprised. The Dawn Court has always been the home to some of the most innovative and creative minds I have known.” 

Even though the compliment wasn’t directed at her, Ersa couldn’t help but feel pride bubble up in her chest. While she hadn’t inherited the engineering trait like Perseis and Erytheia, she was already incredibly proud of their work and eager to see their inventions. 

“Who made it?” Azriel asked. 

“It was my grandmother’s sister, Rulan.”

Azriel nodded his head. “Do you know who they’re supposed to be?”

“Pyrrha and Hesione.”

“I’ve never heard of them.”

Ersa turned to look at him in surprise. He stared down at her, face honest in a way that made Ersa want to take a step back. She looked back to the statues, now holding the book against her front. “This was many years ago, before the War, before humans were even enslaved. Pyrrha was a mortal, and Hesione High Fae.” She pointed at a pair of pointed ears peeking out between flowing bronze tresses. “They fell in love.”

“Let me guess. It was forbidden?”

Ersa shook her head, fighting back a smile at the teasing tone in his voice. “No. The only thing stopping them from being together was time. They both knew that Pyrrha would die first, and Hesione would be by herself for eternity. So, Hesione went to the Cauldron and asked for mortality. She became human, and they were together.” 

Azriel was quiet for a moment before saying, “I’ve never heard that story before.”

“It must be a Dawn Court one. I’ve heard others say that before.”

The male shook his head. “A fae becoming human? It sounds absurd.”

“Well, your High Lady was a human who became a fae. As did her sisters.”

“That’s different. They  _ were _ human. Now, they’re High Fae.”

Ersa hummed in response. “It is different, I suppose. Your High Lady was brought back to life as a High Fae. Twice-born, some would say. She didn’t get a choice about what she wanted to be. Hesione chose to be human.”

Afraid that she had upset Azriel, Ersa turned to face him again. He didn’t look upset, but there was a small frown on his face, a crease above his brow. 

“I still don’t understand why she did it,” he said. “Why couldn’t have Pyrrha become a fae?”

“You know, I used to ask my mother the same question,” Ersa said. “My mother told me it was because human lives are so short and precious. You don’t get centuries. You might get one if you’re lucky. I think mortals appreciate life in a way we can’t because they know their time here is so short.”

Azriel still didn’t look convinced. He let her know by a simple shake of his head. “You truly know nothing of humans, do you?”

“I saw one up close after the war with Hybern.”

He rolled his eyes, and Ersa swore he held back a laugh. “If I am being fair, my interactions with humans have been scant. But I do know that a human would choose to have the life we live over their own meager ones.”

“I think you give us too much credit. We pity them, but they do not pity us.”

“They need our pity.”

“What they need is resources. Food, clothes, material. It’s no wonder so many of them live in squalor.”

“You forget the other half that live in luxury.”

“Ah, I see — what they need is a redistribution of wealth.”

Azriel gave her an incredulous look. Ersa grinned. Normally, she wasn’t so bold in her manner of speaking, especially about the topics she was not an expert in. If the conversation was about herbs and diseases, Ersa could talk circles around them. About politics and humans, not so much. 

Azriel didn’t seem to mind her self-assuredness when she spoke. If her father had been present, he would have immediately dismissed her. 

“You are not like other females I’ve met,” Azriel told her. 

A warning bell went off in Ersa’s head. She scowled at him as she tried to retain the flash of irritation that ran through her. She hated it when males said that, when anyone said that. 

“Is that a  _ good _ thing?” she asked, making sure to emphasize her annoyance. 

The Illyrian looked a little off-put by her question. Ersa saw his wings shift in discomfort against his back. Part of her was proud that she had made him uncomfortable. She knew she was as non threatening as they come. Ersa would never instill the same type of fear Azriel would against others. Her slight stature and small frame and less than coordinated weapon work would let her gain any type of respect from warriors unless she was the one keeping them from dying. 

“I just meant you weren’t like Eirene Naxos,” he said. 

“Oh? What’s the difference between us then?”

She tried to fight back the smile when she saw the panic dash across his eyes, slightly impressed by how still the male kept his features. Ersa knew that he knew he was digging himself into a hole.

“Eirene just wasn’t as…” Azriel made a waving, dismissive gesture with his hand. Ersa waited for him to continue, not going to bother to fill in blanks for him. “She just wasn’t as knowledgeable as you. Every time I spoke to her, I never felt like she actually heard my words. And she only seemed more interested in other things.” The smirk on his face told Ersa that  _ other things  _ Eirene had been more focused on. “She was quite vapid.”

“Well, you still left with her.” Azriel immediately opened his mouth to respond, but Ersa continued. “And I’ll have you know, Eirene is often invited to my sister Erytheia’s monthly book circles. She is quite fond of poetry, and I’m sure you would have had a wonderful conversation about meter and themes if you had actually inquired about her rather than deeming her your suitable conquest of the night.”

If Azriel was startled before, he was downright dismayed now. He gaped like a fish for a moment, unable to form words as he let Ersa’s attack him. Part of Ersa was worried about retaliation. She doubted he would do anything physical to her, but she worried for Arsinoe and her own reputation. 

His fists and shadows curled and uncurled, the smoky tendrils beginning to expand outward. Ersa took a half-step back without thinking. The small movement, however, made Azriel instantly pull his shadows back, forcing his posture to relax. 

“I didn’t mean to  _ imply  _ anything,” he started. “I was just trying to give you a compliment.”

“Then stop talking to me like I’m a female who will vie for your attention.”

Azriel closed his mouth and frowned. “I’m sorry,” he said and nothing more. 

Ersa nodded her head, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. Should she apologize for being too harsh? Too rigid? She decided not to. It would undo the meaning of her words, cripple the force of her tone. 

But much to her surprise, Azriel asked, “I had a question about the Loxian Scripts. I think we may have a book written in one. Not even Amren knows how to translate it.”

Ersa blinked. “Do you have it?” she asked. 

“No.”

“I can’t translate something I don’t have.” She paused. “You could also get one of the priestesses to do it too, y’know.”

“Oh, no. I wouldn’t want to bother them.”

Ersa opened her mouth to retort before quickly realizing that she was being teased. Some of the guilt in Azriel’s had drained, leaving room for a certain type of playfulness, as if to make up for his insensitivity. 

She didn’t know what to make of this… flirtation. If she could call it that. It reminded her of her adolescence, the ways young fae would tease and gossip and play with each other. There was a young male who was infatuated with Ersa. She remembered how he had acted similarly, following and bothering her despite Ersa’s insistence to leave her alone. Back then, she hadn’t been very interested in males. Only books and her wyvern. 

Fighting back a smile, Ersa huffed. “I suppose I could spare a few hours of my  _ very _ busy schedule to help an uncultured Illyrian,” she responded. “Anything else you need me to teach you while we’re at it?”

Azriel looked like he was considering her question, a smirk pulled on the corners of his mouth. His hazel eyes locked with hers, and Ersa felt a tightness in her chest, like someone had pulled the strings of a corset around her heart. 

“I think I may need another dance lesson,” he said. 

There was something blossoming in Ersa’s chest. A certain warmth she was unaccustomed to feeling. It flowed down through her limbs, almost making her feel like fluttering when he offered her his arm to take. 

“Yes,” she said, slipping her arm through his. Her light green sleeve contrasted against his dark one. Tendrils of shadows skimmed over her arm, sliding down to her wrist, resting against the crook of her elbow. By now, Ersa couldn’t hide her smile, and she was well aware that Azriel could see it as he gazed down at her. “That can be arranged.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i like this chapter? no, no didn't
> 
> regardless, thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> some world building shenanigans:  
> -dawn court high fae use wyverns and pegasi for transporation  
> –yeah i decided to inclue new writing systems for no god foresaken reason and yeah they're enya's art language
> 
> thanks for reading


End file.
